“When people talk queer like that,” said McConnell, “it gives me a creepy feeling.”
“I wonder how he lives,” queried Allan, “and how long he has been gone that way. I wish I knew more about him.”
“Well, I don’t,” said McConnell. “Crazy people upset me. I’m afraid of them.”
“There was nothing to be afraid of,” Allan insisted; “the old fellow is evidently harmless.”
“Yes, I know,” McConnell said; “but these harmless people—ugh!” and he shuddered. “They are worst of all.”
The boys were again on the edge of the bluff. Just beyond the crest of the slope rose a shaft of rock, tufted on the top with grass, as you might fancy a stone giant with a shaggy wig. Owen made a picture from the north side, showing the shore and hills with the stone sentinel standing in the foreground.
Allan decided that if he could reach the top of the rock he could command the path by which they had come, the old man’s hut, the spur of the hills, and the anchorage of the Arabella.
“I wouldn’t risk it,” said McConnell. “It looks rather narrow.”
“I can do it easily,” insisted Allan, “if one of you will hand up the camera afterward.”
Owen took charge of the kodak while Allan, by a long reach, caught a shelf of the rock, got foothold, and hauled himself safely to the top.